


White Hands

by RyMagnatar



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, M/M, also a sort of brief half mention of suicide?, not very successful or at all serious or well thought out at all, short but sweet, this was an askfic on tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2012-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 06:51:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyMagnatar/pseuds/RyMagnatar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's this guy you walk behind on your way to school every day. He has the whitest hands you've ever seen. You just might love him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AreteNike](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AreteNike/gifts).



Your breath fogs the air in front of you, but that doesn't obscure the view. Every day at 7:35 sharp he's out on the sidewalk, heading up to the campus. His hand is pale, curled around a phone and the other tucked into his pocket. You know the swoop of his hair, the ridge of the back of his ear, the way he changes his single earring every day, the same pattern of ring, stud, drop, ring, stud, and you assume drop on Saturday. You wonder which he wears on Sunday.

He does that scarf thing too. Big thick ones that cover his neck and loop around again and again. They’re bright and brilliant and look so fucking soft. They look handmade, but you’re no judge at that. Scarfs and long coats, that’s what he’s got to wear. At least four different coats to match each palate; burning red, soothing blue, soft white and gleaming black. His hands are always pale and white and long, though.

The bag he carries never changes though. It has the same three pins on the side; Aquarius symbol, the twitter whale, the Triforce. It’s brown, looks like leather and the strap is frayed a little on the edges. It looks like it’s been stitched back together with vivid pink thread. Of all the new stuff he wears, why not get a new bag?

One day he has no bag. He stands on the sidewalk, watching the march of cars come to drop off students or get a good spot to park. He’s just staring at them. His face, in profile, is as white as his hands, but his eyes. His eyes are deep blue-violet and lined in red. He stands motionless and then takes a sudden, shuddering breath like he’s just remembering how. There’s no phone today. Just empty white hands clenched tight at his side and unblinking eyes staring out. He takes a step forward.

You don’t think. You jump into action. He’s walking forward but you’re running. He’s in the road and you’re running. You grab him. The momentum swings you both around violently. He lands against a parked car. You pin him there. He stares at you, wide eyed, gaping mouth and tears. God, there are tears in his eyes.  “Why?” is all he asks.

There are so many reasons, swirling wild and free and dark and sharp in your mind. “You’d only get a little hurt, nothing serious. Not with the speeds they’re going,” are your first words. He twitches and looks down, away from you. You look down. You see his white, white hand on the red of the car’s hood. It looks like blood next to his hand. You swallow a hard lump from your throat.

 “And also,” his hand is cold when you put yours over it. You squeeze his fingers tightly, “How the fuck can I work up the nerve to tell you that I love you if you’re gone?” He hiccups. His other hand grabs the front of your shirt and he bends forward. It’s like your words have stabbed him in the chest because he can’t manage to catch his breath properly. He presses his face against your shoulder and sobs.

On Sunday, he doesn’t wear earrings. 


End file.
